


No Church in the Wild

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Coda, Dubious Consent, Heavy Angst, Justice League Coda, Justice League Spoilers, M/M, Resurrection, Violence, kind of, sort of canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-19
Updated: 2017-11-19
Packaged: 2019-02-04 08:54:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12767448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: "I'll have a contingency plan.""If you're the first face he sees, you'll need it."Bruce brings Clark back by himself.





	No Church in the Wild

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [（DC/JL/超蝙）No church in the wild](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12831552) by [AprilDayEver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AprilDayEver/pseuds/AprilDayEver)



> 1000 kudos to BatShitCrazy for collaborating with me on this. I couldn't have done it without you. I'm dying to read some JL fic, so keep it coming, guys! Here's my superbat contribution, hope you like it :)

The moment he sees the motherbox--really  _sees_ the intricate webbing of darkness and light, woven between rippling scales--he knows.

The kind of power in Victor's hands isn't from this world--it isn't even from this universe. It breathes in centuries and spits out millenia. He is a brief millisecond, unable to even conceive of the existence wrapped into the object in front of him.

 _It doesn't hold power._   _It_ is  _power._

He tries to argue, tries to get them to  _listen,_ but their minds were already made up. The mere suggestion that the motherbox could be used for anything other than stopping Steppenwolf directly seems like blasphemy--and maybe it was.

But how couldn't they  _see_ what was right in front of them? What that kind of pure, unadulterated power could  _do,_ wielded in the right hands?

Diana and Arthur argue above him, their voices blurring into fear and desperation. Barry stands to the side, face pinched. Victor watches him with one eye, impassive. Calculating.

 _We can't fight Steppenwolf again,_ Bruce thinks, watching the younger man _, and he knows it._

He keeps his lips pressed shut. Nods along as Diana suggests alternatives, pressing a reassuring smile onto his lips. Barry perks up slowly, roused by Diana's fire and Arthur's cool determination.

Victor catches his gaze as they separate, objectives distributed. He takes a step closer to the mother box, the warning implicit.

 _You know,_ Bruce thinks, letting his face go carefully blank,  _you know what it could do, and still, you do nothing._

 _"_ _Bruce!"_

Diana's call breaks the spell. Victor lets him go, something dark twisting his human side.

 _You know,_ he thinks viciously.  _And if you won't do it, I will._

* * *

Getting the motherbox out is harder than he realizes. Under Diana's watch--and more importantly, Victor's--the box is locked down. Wary of the younger man's reach, he ditches his cell phone and watch at the cave.

Victor will find out. Of that, he has little doubt. It's a matter of time--of minutes, if not hours--before he puts together the full plan.

He doesn't say the name. It's much easier to think about coordinates and minutes ticking down on the plane's dashboard.

Smallville is a set of latitudes and longitudes, dark country under his wings--unremarkable in the most remarkable way.

Alfred is silent in his ear as he plunges the shovel into chilled dirt. He wonders silently how the distinction between grave and  _not_  is made, as the first shovelful is placed delicately to the side.

_Does grave dirt begin feet down, or inches?_

He hasn't dug a grave in years, and it shows; his back burns as he pulls up shovelfuls of dirt. The handle slips between his fingers, blisters slowly forming across the pads of his palms as he digs.

A burst of cold wind shocks him into memories long forgotten. Before he can pull away, he is knee deep in rain again. He is breathless, powerless, as he digs his own son's grave. He knows the soil of a cemetery intimately. He has felt it under his own fingernails, breathed it in until he is just as cold as the clay thirteen feet down--

The shovel hits cheap wood. He clears the top methodically, scraping against the pine with the steel edge.

" _Sir,_ " Alfred says in his ear,  _"I have the requested materials."_

He breaths in dust and dirt, feels it mixing with the sweat on his face, his heart pounding. After a moment, he taps his comm.

 _"_ Almost done _,_ Alfred."

The other man says nothing; he doesn't need to. They both know what this means.

He breathes in one final time, and brings down the shovel with a wrenched cry.

* * *

The guard doesn't bother to second-check Alfred's quickly created cover identity. The Ship is buzzing with the waning energy of second shift, scientists exiting the exterior labs with worn faces.

He takes his ID badge back, pinning it to his jacket. The radio hums in the background, present half for the cover, half for the ambient noise.

_What a wicked game you played_

_to make me feel this way_

_What a wicked thing to do_

_to let me dream of you_

_What a wicked thing to say_

_you never felt this way_

_What a wicked thing to do_

_to make me dream of you_

The lyrics linger in his brain, adding to the underlying doubt he still can't acknowledge. He can't be wrong about this. He can still smell Kansas soil, somehow, under the strength of industrial cleaner.

Alfred murmurs directions in his ear, but he's only half-listening.

The mother box is hidden under the second seat. He can feel it pulsing against the dash, in time with his heart. He slows his breathing as he turns into the genesis chamber quadrant.

_The world was on fire and no one could save me but you_

_It's strange what desire will make foolish people do--_

He turns off the truck, the radio cutting off with a burst of static. For a moment, he takes in the setting. The genesis chamber will be difficult to maneuver with a body; he'll need to make two trips, maybe more.

" _Master Wayne, not to rush you, but I believe you only have--"_

He rips the comm out of his ear, tossing it into the glovebox. The silence of the ship is deafening, pounding at him. For a moment, it swells, a mismatched, disjointed melody as the motherbox thrums by his feet.

He snaps out of it, unaware of how much time has passed.

 _I'm older now than my father ever was,_ he'd told Alfred, months and months ago.  _This might be the only thing I do that ever means anything._

(he'd believed that)

* * *

Lex Luthor's fingerprints are everywhere inside the ship. If he had time--and the energy--he could trace the fried circuits and destruction into some outline of a plan. He settles for cataloguing a few sections on the trip back for the motherbox.

Clark Kent,  _Smallville,_ Kal-El, floats in the refuse of Krypton's destruction, arms folded across his chest. The water is a murky orange around him, seeping and ruining the cheap suit Martha Kent went broke buying. It's a hideous blue color, wrent across by a blood-red tie so  _apropos,_ it's painful.

They are caught in a moment, floating timeless. If he had had a reason to turn back earlier, knee-deep in gravedirt, this is the last chance. As if sacrilege like this could be undone, somehow, halfway through.

He steps into the liquid. It is curiously warm, swirling around his knees. The sentry swivels toward him, watchful as he wades towards Kal-El.

With a trembling hand, he presses the body under the water. The fluid overtakes him slowly, bubbling as the Kryptonian is suspended, just under the surface.

When he's satisfied with the depth, he steps out of the pool. The sentry turns back to the door, whirring softly.

He places the motherbox just above Kal-El's chest, inches below the surface. It sinks halfway, pulsing softly in the orange liquid. The scales begin to ripple faster, the box morphing in and out of solid shape.

The podium is unfamiliar under his hand. He presses down on the central button, recalling the logs he'd watched in the cave, months ago, after Luthor had been arrested.

 _"_ _Confirm genesis pod,"_ a voice intones over the speakers, devoid of all emotion,  _"Proceed with regeneration?"_

The motherbox pulses rapidly, creating small waves in the regeneration liquid. He presses down on the podium, heart pounding.

"Proceed."

" _Proceeding._ "

A beam of light surges out of the motherbox, expanding into a burning column. He is knocked off his feet as the room lights up, pure power pounding at his skin, tearing at his clothes and hair. There is a far-away scream, somewhere above him, blurring into the sound of light—

Just as quickly as it begins, the light disappears. He looks up slowly, uncurling from his position on the chamber floor. The pool is silent. Clark is—

Clark is  _standing,_ and it takes his eyes more than a few seconds to acknowledge this. His suit is shredded, falling away in burnt pieces into the liquid. His eyes are closed. He is serene.

Bruce rolls onto his knees, wincing as his ribs protest. He doesn't dare breathe. His hand drifts towards his belt, thumbing at the button.

_Just in case. Just in case you're wrong--and if you're wrong, you're dead, and you know that—_

Clark's hand twitches, dragging through the liquid suddenly. He tilts his head, as if listening to something far away. He opens his eyes suddenly, lips twitching.

" _You_ ," he says, like it's an accusation, in a voice so horrifyingly  _not Clark._ His eyes are blank, latching onto him instantly.

"I...I  _know_ you."

Bruce stands slowly, hand resting on his belt. He watches the Kryptonian carefully, the hair on his arms rising. Something is wrong. Something is horribly wrong.

A blur, and a hand is wrapped around his throat. He gags as he's forced back against the wall, vision blurring as his head hits the rock.

"You did this--you had to--" Clark closes his eyes, shaking his head with a bitter twist of his lips, "You couldn't let me go, Bruce--You had to take my  _death_ from me too--"

The Kryptonian slams his head back against the wall again. Sparks fly across his vision. He can imagine Alfred's lecture vividly, can almost hear his voice—

_Another ten seconds without oxygen, and you won't have limited vision to complain about, Master Wayne—_

Bruce digs in his pocket, thumbing into the small box there. Clark shakes him again, furious. He doesn't notice the hint of green light between his fingers.

 _"_ _Do you know what you've--"_

With the last of his strength, he plunges the Kryptonite shard into Clark's neck. The other man lets him go with a roar, his eyes flaring red as he staggers backwards.

Bruce drops to the ground, chest heaving. His vision blurs in and out, blood rushing to his head. His throat is swollen, blistering pain. Every breath is razor blades.

His hand reaches for his belt, hovering over the button there. Outside, far above their heads, a stealth drone has two hellfire missiles aimed at their heads, primed to fire. It would take one button--just a miniscule amount of pressure, applied downwards—

Clark's hands flinch as they brush the Kryptonite. He shudders, twitching as the mineral's effects increase. A half-expression flickers across his face, cracking the blank mask.

 _Fear,_ Bruce thinks, watching from the ground.  _That's fear._

He recognizes that look. He  _knows_ that look. There'd been a time when he'd dreamed about that look. He's seen it before, months ago, as the Kryptonian had choked on green gas and the first taste of his own blood. As he'd drawn the spear across Clark's face, so slowly,  _marking_ him—

Clark's face twitches again, the expression growing clearer. He reaches for the Kryptonite again, moaning.

Bruce watches as the other man wavers on his feet, counting under his breath. His finger hovers over the detonator, waiting. Clark's eyes slide shut; he falls to his knees, limbs cracking the stone underneath.

There's a hard shove behind him as the sentry surges forward. It scans the Kryptonian, ignoring Bruce. Its arm highlights the Kryptonite with a red field, beeping softly.

" _Foreign contaminant detected."_

"...please." Clark's voice is hoarse, eyes darting back and forth, unseeing. His head dips forward, threatening to overbalance him. "I...I can't  _breathe…_ "

Bruce catches him before his face hits the ground, avoiding the shard. There is blood slicked against the other man's neck, pooling slowly against his clavicle.

Clark's breathing quickens, his pulse rabbiting under Bruce's thumb. He moans again, sending a shiver down his spine.

The shard is a dark break in pale skin. His fingers itch to grab for it. For a moment, he ignores Clark's gasps, entranced by the dark green. He had slaved over Kryptonite, once upon a time--had honed it down to a perfect point, hour after hour in the Cave.

Clark gasps in his arms, his eyes burning as the Kryptonite finally reaches his heart. The red in his pupils fades. He begins to choke, eyes dimming to reveal pale blue.

Bruce looks away, tasting bile in his throat. With a final prayer, he rips the shard from the Kryptonian's neck, tearing through skin and muscle.

Clark screams--a horrible, drawn-out keen--as blood goes flying across the chamber.

A hand is at his throat instantly, pressing him against the wall. The hand constricts, crushing his throat before he can utter a sound. He reaches for the detonator, desperate.

As if reading his mind, a hand catches his wrist, twisting. He lets out a scream as the bone snaps, fire running up his arm.

Clark tightens the hand on his throat, his face twisted.

" _Lois_."

When Bruce doesn't answer, the hand around his wrist  _squeezes._ He bites down on a scream, writhing in Clark's arms.

" _Alive_ ," he gasps, "She's  _alive_."

Clark's face twists. He releases his wrist, keeping him pressed against the wall. There is nothing human in his features.

 _This is what you wanted,_ Bruce thinks to himself.  _You knew this could happen. So convince him otherwise._

"Why did you bring me back?"

"To--fight."

"To  _fight_?" Clark tilts his head, laughing bitterly. "I  _died,_ Bruce. It was  _quiet_. Do you know what it's like to hear everything, all the time? To never experience silence? To never be  _still_?"

Bruce returns his stare, face blank.

"And now it's back," Clark continues, quieter. He glances upwards, his eyes unfocusing. "'The noise, the chaos…

The hand at his throat tightens, pushing him up the wall. His feet dangle as they leave the ground.

"You didn't bring me back to save the world," Clark laughs again, "No. You brought me back for yourself. You felt  _guilty_."

"There's an attack coming--"

"There is  _always_ an attack coming!" Clark roars, voice rising, "Don't you understand that?"

"This isn't about me," he forces out.

Silence falls for the first time. Clark looks away, flinching. Bruce can imagine the screams he must be hearing--the pain and human suffering battering him. He wouldn't judge him for being selfish--for turning away. But it wasn't in Clark's nature. It wasn't who he  _was_.

"Please," he whispers, around the hand on his throat, "Please, Clark. We need your help."

The world tilts as he drops to the floor, the pressure on his throat disappearing. A hand catches him by the jaw, pressing him against the wall. Clark leans over him, his eyes burning.

"You want forgiveness," he says softly, "You want me to fight again. Choose one."

Bruce opens his mouth, only to be met by a cruel backhand. He hits the ground, tasting blood.

"Do you like that?" Clark asks above him, his lips twisted into a parody of a smile, "Does it remind you of the last time?"

A second hit, and his head slams into the ground with a sickening thud. He feels bile rise in his throat again, the room spinning around him. Clark straddles him, framing his head in his hands.

"You didn't wear the suit," he whispers, "Did you want me to hit you?"

Bruce doesn't respond, lips pressed together. Clark snorts above him, leaning down.

"You're bleeding," he whispers next to his ear, his nose brushing under Bruce's ear. He shivers. Clark laughs. "Three of your ribs are cracked on the left."

"...are you done?"

Hands grab for his wrists, and he moans as the broken bones in his right are crushed together, drawn above his head. Clark is inches from his face, a hint of red in his pupils.

 _This isn't him,_ Bruce thinks, dazed,  _he came back altered--something isn't right. Wrong…_

"I was terrified," Clark says, ripping him from his thoughts with a twist of his hands. Bruce moans, bucking under him. "That night we fought. Your foot on my neck. I couldn't breathe, Bruce…"

The Kryptonian's hand brushes the swollen circle around his neck, making him flinch. The hand draws away, teasing.

"I could do anything to you."

Another hit across his face; this time he grunts, feeling one of his teeth loosen. Blood runs down his throat, stinging the cuts there.

"You'd let me," Clark says, a hint of realization in his voice. "This fight is that important to you."

The hand was suddenly between his legs; Bruce feels his stomach drop as his thighs are spread apart, heart pounding loud enough for both of them to hear.

"Would you?" the Kryptonian asks, distant. He trails the hand down his groin, sending waves of heat up his spine. "Bruce?"

The hand on his wrist tightens just as Clark palms his dick. Bruce holds back a scream as his hand goes numb, pain shooting up his arm. He bites down  _hard,_ willing the pain away, but the hand between his legs holds him in the present.

He can feel the other man against him--hard. He grinds down on Bruce, a quick press of his hips, as if he's teasing. Bruce shuts his eyes.

"Bruce," Clark says above him, "Look at me."

His good hand inches along the chamber floor, searching desperately for the abandoned shard of Kryptonite. He can't reach the detonator from here-not with Clark on top of him. Not with his earpiece missing.

A crack in the ground, something wet--suddenly, his hand hits the shard. He opens his eyes. Clark is right above him, staring down.

"You--"

With the last of his strength, he pushes up, whipping the shard across Clark's throat. The other man falls off of him, hands going to his neck.

Bruce scrambles backwards, pressing himself to the wall as Clark stumbles, nearly tripping into the genesis liquid. There is blood dripping down his neck, a large gash marring the pale skin of his throat.

The Kryptonite shard is still clutched tightly in his hand. He can defend himself again. He can reach the detonator in time.

_Alfred—_

Clark turns back to him, a palm pressed to the cut. They stare at each other, silent. Bruce presses his bad hand to the detonator, biting his lip against the pain.

"There's two hellfire missiles aimed at this pod," he says, wincing as his ribs ache with the movement. "I press this button, we're both dead."

"You are," Clark says slowly, tilting his head. He's staring at him strangely. "I'll be fine."

"You're weak. You wouldn't survive it."

A gust of wind, and the Kryptonian is straddling him again. Bruce lifts the kryptonite up, holding it to Clark's throat. They face off, neither moving.

"Do it," Clark says, looking down at the shard pressed to his jugular. "Press the button. Do it."

The detonator slips from his hands; he lets it hit the floor, powerless to move if he wanted to. He moans as his wrist is jostled, unable to hide the pain any longer.

There's something in Clark's eyes. It's a foothold. It's a beginning--some chip in this strange blank mask. Concern? Concern for him?

Clark's pupils are blown wide. He knows that look, can see the tiny fraction of humanity it draws upon as Kal-El stares down at him. If the only way to get through to Clark is this, then--then it's what he needs to do.

_What you deserve—_

The kryptonite falls from his fingers, clattering to the ground below. He lifts his

hand towards the other man's cheek, hesitating. Clark leans into the touch immediately, without thinking. His eyes are burning again.

Bruce's eyes close as hands brush his hips, pushing the waistband of his pants down. He flinches as a finger tugs at his underwear, hot against his skin.

"Easy," Clark says, but there's a harshness to his tone. This isn't gentle--it isn't supposed to be.

Bruce grunts as Clark's hand wraps around his cock, smooth and uncalloused. He lets out a gasp as he's pushed to the floor, a finger brushing between his legs. In one motion, Clark tears the military pants off him at the seams, throwing the pieces to the ground.

With a wicked smile, he leans towards the genesis pool and dips his fingers in. Bruce narrows his eyes, watching the liquid drip down the other man's fingers.

Clark returns in a heartbeat, parting his thighs and kneeling between his legs. His hands travel to his hips. Leaning forward, Clark's breath is hot on his cheek. There was that smile again--so close to the real thing. A shade darker, almost imperceptible.

Bruce relaxes his muscles one by one, knowing what was coming. A finger traces around the entrance, before a blunt finger breaches the ring of muscle. He breathes in as the finger pushes up, quicker than he would have preferred.

Clark grins above him, moving the finger in and out slowly. Bruce stares at the ceiling, unwilling to give him the reaction he was looking for. He grits his teeth as a second finger hints at his entrance, clamping down on the urge to run.

"You can do two," Clark whispers next to his ear, breathing quickly, "I know you've done more. Bruce Wayne has, at least."

Bruce kept his face blank as the second finger pushed in, focusing on the pain in his wrist as heat grew in between his legs.

"You like that," Clark mutters. "I can see the blood flowing in your veins. This is getting you off. Isn't it?"

Bruce looks away, mute. A third finger is inserted, hard, and he groans. Clark huffs a laugh, palming the front of his dress pants, rubbing slow circles into the fabric.

A zipper is undone, somewhere above him. Bruce looks at the ceiling again as the fingers are removed, steeling himself. A moment later, Clark pushes into him, choking on a groan as Bruce takes him in slowly, so slowly—

Pressure builds within him, stretching until he's aching around the other man, half a second away from crying out. Clark thrusts upwards, not giving him a chance to catch his breath. He cuts off a moan, pushed up towards the wall as Clark's hands frame his hips.

The room blends into a haze of pain. He sees Clark above him, blurring in and out of focus. He's moaning softly, little short breaths escaping his lips. His hips move in and out, slamming back down at an angle that makes him squirm. A mixture of pleasure and pain sings up his spine as Clark's curls brush his forehead.

"You're close," the Kryptonian gasps in his ear, "I can feel it."

Bruce closes his eyes, ignoring the pain in his wrist and ribs. He sinks into the waves of pleasure, pushing back down on Clark's thrusts, hearing those gasps above him quicken, growing closer together.

Clark comes with a moan against his neck, biting down hard on his shoulder as he rocks into Bruce, again and again. He feels his own orgasm begin and clenches down, gasping as it hits him, shuddering through it as Clark holds him down.

The room quiets. Clark is panting against his chest, eyes closed. They lie intertwined on the floor for what seems like an eternity, silent.

Bruce examines the Kryptonian's face carefully. The tension--the anger--from before is gone. His features are relaxed, far from the blank mask they'd been a few minutes ago. He cards a hand through Clark's hair despite himself, shaking him slightly.

"Clark?"

Blue eyes blink open, staring at him. Clark focuses slowly, seemingly surprised to find them so close. He frowns.

"Bruce? What…" he shakes his head, dazed. He looks so different-- _sounds_ so different--than the man who'd been inside him a moment before. "What...what happened?"

He moves to sit up, groaning as his ribs shift painfully. Clark is at his side immediately, concerned.

"Your  _ribs--_ "

"They're fine," he says, standing. He grabs the remains of his pants from the floor with his good hand. Clark is still seated on the floor, shirtless. Confused.

"Where are we? What happened?"

"There's an attack coming," the familiar line nearly lodges in his throat. He looks at the wall instead. "We-- _I-_ -needed your help."

"Help?" Clark asked. "The last thing I remember is…"

Bruce winces as he trails off, gritting his teeth against the wave of guilt that hits him.

"...Doomsday." Clark finishes, the word more of a question. "Lois, is she--is she alright?"

"She's fine," Bruce turns around, ignoring the crack in his voice. He smiles slightly. "She's absolutely fine."

Before he can elaborate, a crash echoes through the chamber. Diana jumps through the doorway, Cyborg and Arthur hot on her heels. Barry is suddenly behind him, frowning.

Victor turns to the genesis liquid immediately. He frowns at the remains of the motherbox, still floating at the top of the pool. His eye drifts back to Clark, still sprawled across the chamber floor. Diana is frozen, still putting the pieces together.

"What did you  _do_?" Barry asks loudly, gesturing at Clark. "That's--that's  _Superman_! Actual, breathing, Superman!" He turns to Clark, "You're  _alive_!"

Arthur is silent, staring at Bruce over his trident. Diana puts a hand to her mouth, sending him a look full of knowing, of something almost like sympathy. His clothes are shredded. He is bruised. His right wrist hangs by his side, unusable. The truth is painfully obvious.

Victor's stare is the worst. Bruce meets his eyes directly, resolute in his choices. He stares back.

_I did what you couldn't. What you wouldn't do. I did it._

Victor breaks the gaze, turning away. Bruce forces his features into a smile, putting his left hand in front of Clark's face.

"Welcome to the team."

**Author's Note:**

> Liked it? Leave me a comment and let me know what you thought :) Come find me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/frownyalfred)


End file.
